“They are capable of stealing your ideas,” chimed in Jack Curtiss, “and putting them on their own boat.”

“That’s ridiculous,” laughed Rob, “as I said I wouldn’t want to have anything to do with such a contrivance except on a lake or a river.”

“Well, you keep your advice and your ideas to yourself, and get out of this yard!” roared Sam, waxing bolder and bolder, and mistaking Rob’s conciliatory manner for cowardice.  “I’ve a good mind to punch your head.”

“Better come on and try it,” retorted Rob, preparing for the immediate onslaught which it seemed reasonable from Sam’s manner to expect.

But it didn’t come.

Muttering something about “young cubs,” and “keeping the boat-yard gate locked,” Sam turned to his chums and invited them to come and try out his new motor in the shop.

As the three chums had no desire to “mix it up with Sam on his own place,” as Tubby put it, they left the yard promptly, and walked on down the water-front to the wharf at which lay the Flying Fish, the fastest craft in the Hampton Motor Boat Club.  Rob’s boat was, to tell the truth, rather broad of beam for a racer and drew quite a little water.  She had a powerful motor and clean lines, however, and while not primarily designed solely for “mug-hunting,” had beaten everything she had raced with during the few months since the boys had completed her.  The money for her motor had been given to Rob by his father, who was quite indulgent to Rob in money matters, having noticed that the lad always expended the sums given him wisely.

“Let’s take a spin,” suddenly suggested Tubby.

“Nothing to prevent us,” answered Rob; “we’ve got plenty of time before dinner.  Come on, boys.”

The lads were soon on board and examining the gasoline tank, to see how much fuel they had on hand, and oiling up the engine.  The fuel receptacle proved to be almost full, so after filling the lubricant cups and attending to the batteries, they started up the engine—­a powerful, three cylindered, twelve-horse affair capable of driving the twenty-two foot Flying Fish through the water at twelve miles an hour or better.

Just as Rob was casting off the head-line there came a hail from the wharf above them.

“Ahoy, there, shipmates!  Where are yer bound fer this fine, sunny day?”

The lads looked up to see the weather-beaten countenance of Captain Job Hudgins, one of the characters of the vicinity.  He was a former whaler, and lived on a small island some distance from Hampton.  On his little territory he fished and grew a few vegetables, “trading in” his produce at the Hampton grocery stores for his simple wants.  He, however, had a pension, and was supposed to have a “snug little fortune” laid by.  His only companion in his island solitude was it big Newfoundland dog named “Skipper.”

The animal stood beside its master on the dock and wagged its tail at the sight of the boys, whom it knew quite well from their frequent visits to the captain’s little island.